Trouble trouble everywhere. A falling-apart wagon did just that directly in front of Percy on the road and it took a hellish long time for him to convince one of the mule-stubborn black mares to walk down into the ditch to get round it. Took him even longer to convince her to pull the coach back out of the ditch after he'd taken the time to convince the exasperated driver of the ancient wagon to help him.

"Yer fault, don't ya see, that I'm in this strait," Percy explained logically.

"Yer fault, more like," the man argued, "fer being on this street a-tall."

At this point Percy was inclined to agree with him. Once he got round the accident the gates would be closed for the night. He would have to stay in Paris. He turned back toward the northern hills to one of his favourite hideaways in the city. Suddenly, he realised he was on the road leading to St. Lazar - and what a bad idea that was. Every prison in the city would be crawling with guards, revolutionaries and spies, and the last thing he needed was to have his face remarked. He turned the horse into a side-s treet, deciding to work his way around the perimeter of La Force instead. It would be a great deal busier there than around St. Lazar, so there was a better chance of driving by unobserved.

The turn launched Percy directly into a barbarous draft. Lord, it was cold! Would be colder still after the moon rose. He drove past a brightly lit door marking a popular drinking establishment, and noted the groups of men - mostly in blue coats - departing the place. In lieu of pay, most of the National Guards were issued tickets for supper and a bottle of wine in exchange for their day's work. Made sense, Percy thought, to feed them since, god knew, there was no cash money in all of France these days. The number of blue-coats wandering back in the direction of La Force told him that this was the end of their dinner hour . . . around 8:00, or maybe closer to 9. No, it was 8, Percy decided, because he knew the shifts changed at midnight. Four hours was right for a half a shift. He filed the information in his memory; it was sure to come in handy.

He filtered bits of conversations from the groups as he drove past, noting a heavy guttural voice on his left that denoted a Frenchy from Marseilles. Long way from home, that one. Then a piping laugh made him sit straighter. God, he knew that sound - Hastings. Percy swivelled his head all round, trying to pick out the shape of his friend, but couldn't. Obviously, he was too well disguised. Percy didn't dare shout, "Hastings, good fellow, how long has it been?" - something he could have done even a month ago. Since the uprising in August when the mob had ransacked the Tuileries, the English were not much liked in Paris anymore. Lord Tony's father, the Duke of Exeter, had warned, "Pitt demands His Majesty pull our Ambassador, but the damn fool is diddling. As always. Fool! We'll be sent his head in the diplomatic bag, you mark my words!" That was Exeter, full of phlegm as usual. And probably right for all that. So, how might Sir Percy draw Lord Hastings's attention without singling himself out for every Revolutionary guard in Chauvelin's pay?

"I must say you're the last person I expected to encounter on the street, although it's good to find a friendly face in that hideous uniform - and I have to add, my poor friend that that is the poorest fitting uniform I've ever had the misfortune to see." Percy rattled on just above a whisper in an effort to hide his delight at finding his friend with so little effort.

"No tailor, not even a French one, could do sewin' that bad. Looks like a schoolgirl made it." Percy laughed his inane laugh. Oh it was delightful to rib his friend. To see his friend. The last one he'd expected to encounter.

"D'you have any word of Dewhurst? That's who I've expected to uncover. He's gone to ground and I have to find out why. No word from Ffoulkes, either, which is most worrisome."

The see-saw of emotion made Percy dizzy as he shifted from abrupt joy to resounding dread.

"Catch up with . . .Lord Bathurst has seen Marg . . . my wife?"

It was impossible, of course, Percy lied to himself, hearing the lie in his thoughts and hating himself for it. What sorcery was there in Marguerite that pushed him down such a path? Once more he stood face to face with the idea of the wife he loved too well, and feared above all - the traitor!

"Timothy," Percy sighed his friend's name, reached for and grabbed his hand in a punishing grip. "Tell me true that you don't believe this message. It's the most unlikely of events that Lady Blakeney would be here . . . would be visiting La Force. Isn't it?"

Was that it? Percy wondered, grasping at straws. Was that why he had heard nothing from Ffoulkes or Dewhurst? Because Margot - silly, darling Margot - was in the middle of some terrible calamity?

The nails of the coffin were pounded in by Percy's friend, Lord Hastings, as he said, " . . . it would make sense."

"Sense? That she is in Paris? What kind of sense?" Percy demanded, virtually unheard by Hastings who was keen to tell his part. Following that confession was a trail of words punctuated with the name of Chauvelin, and Percy began to see red.

"Chauvelin . . . Armand . . . " It was as if he were trying to understand a foreign language - so eagerly did he not wish to hear what Hastings had to say.

The flow of words was hot - too hot. Percy caught the important phrase: 'According to Bathurst she certainly left England in a hurry' and felt his heart sink into his gut.

"If she's known to have left England then . . ." he began. He knew what his friends must think - knew what he thought himself for all that he tried not to think at all.

"Nothing would draw Marguerite back to Paris except for Armand and his safety. Nothing!" If only he had been able to keep Armand safe then none of this would have happened. And - of course - he couldn't tell Marguerite any of this and expect to be believed. Based on his past performance his word was worth less than a gross weight of fertiliser.

"You have done well to find out all of this, Hastings, but I need more. I need to know when Lady Blakeney was at La Force and, more important, when she left. Did anyone follow her? Does anyone have an idea where she is staying in Paris?" It would be difficult for him to face Margot in Paris - but worse if he didn't and she died. He would gladly bow to the greater need and come clean - remove the mask and face his wife, if only she might be safe.

Before him stood the stone wall of La Force. The wrought iron portcullis-like gate. Revolutionary guards stood at attention, muskets shouldered and looking very serious. Percy swallowed.

"I suppose I must leave you here," he said to Hastings, and breathed in deeply as if he expected there to be no air at all within the stone walls.

Glynde. The scrabbling figure did not resemble that of Glynde, but the eyes were unmistakable. What? How? Percy's mind refused to take in the idea of Glynde's presence in Paris, yet Hastings was sitting next to him - an equally improbably event - so why not Glynde? Percy held the pamphlet to his eyes, not really able to make out the print in the reddish glare from the torches of La Force, until he drove closer to the thick wall that bordered the prison. As the wagon creaked past a glowing torch, a few words leapt out at him: "The people must throw themselves upon the enemy en masse! To Arms, citizens! The enemy is at our gates."

He blinked. Impossible! He shoved the paper inside his jacket to be read later, and turned once more to Hastings.

"I can't see a thing in this smoke-filled light, but my impression is that this - " he tapped his chest where the pamphlet lay hidden - " speaks about these riots you mention."

In the flickering torchlight Percy saw the heavy wooden door inside the wrought iron gate open. Both guards standing at either side of the doorway turned their backs to the gate, speaking to whomever had opened the door. Percy couldn't make out the figure as the guards were both taller and fully curtained it, but he wondered idly if it might be the rat, Chauvelin, himself.

"This isn't the best time to storm the fortress," he told Hastings and he slapped the reigns against the horse's back and the wagon moved on. "If you recognised me so easily, so will Chauvelin and if it is Chauvelin himself I must face, then I must do it with caution."

Percy didn't acknowledge Hastings's information that Lady Blakeney may also be within the prison; he voiced his refusal to accept that possibility in a forthright tone as if his lack of acceptance negated all possibility of her presence. It was too much for him to struggle with the thought that he needed to rescue two when Armand's release would cost him everything he dared spend. Besides, it was less likely that she who ostensibly knew him so well, would recognise him in disguise. Marguerite didn't know he was the Pimpernel - she couldn't have known it was him she had alerted at Shipwash! - whereas Percy was certain his name appeared on the master list of suspects Chauvelin carried in his search for the Scarlet Pimpernel.

"All the same, we mustn't take too much time in preparation. If there is indeed a revolution at hand, the number of soldiers guarding the prison will only increase as the time draws nearer."

He had reached the end of the street and turned the corner. La Force filled a large plot of land like a tremendous black block dropped from the sky. There were windows far up in the stone walls - all barred. There were entrances at the side - narrow doors of solid wood and all well guarded. La Force was Percy's least favourite prison in Paris; it was actually two buildings joined by brick corridors like octopus tentacles twining it with its monstrous brick partner. He was familiar with the courtyard in the centre of the place and the surprisingly bright and cheery park. A few trees (dropping leaves) and a fountain splashing water into a shell-like tub.

He knew the kitchens were in the rear, that coal was delivered daily for cooking and heating. Coal deliveries. Food deliveries. The rotations of the watch. Chauvelin awaiting the Pimpernel. Had he commanded a table be dragged into a dungeon so he could continue working as he waited? Percy visualised a weary, red-eyed guard holding aloft a lantern since there were only brackets for torches in the ancient stone walls.

"I must give Chauvelin the bravest show he's ever seen," Percy told Hastings. "Since he's waiting for me, he will see my shape in every stranger who appears. He mustn't know that I expect him to recognise me, and for myself, the surprise will be easily acted. Here - I think the best plan will be for you to wear my current disguise - you will have a better chance of succeeding in freeing Armand. Now listen carefully and I will tell you what I propose we do."

What he proposed, Percy said, was nothing like what he had dreamed would happen. He'd anticipated having Ffoulkes to hand. He'd counted on Dewhurst's presence to draw Chauvelin and knock him off guard. Why had this not happened?

"It's a sorry little plan, but all I have left to work with. God, did you recognise Glynde? I keep thinking about him out there, hobbling about like a demented scarecrow."

Percy intercepted Hastings's resigned tone and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Buck up, man. I'd say your odds are good for comin' out alive; tis me the bugger wishes to see floating in a spicy French stew."

Hastings began to contradict . . . Percy shook his head, holding a finger against his lips. "Your voice carries and we mustn't be overheard speaking English! Now, this plan of mine . . ."

In the shadow of the tall fence, Percy stripped off his jacket and cap and handed them to Hastings. "The hat will fall over your eyes, and the jacket hide your hands."

"What if you've underestimated Chauvelin?" Hastings asked, shucking out of the tight uniform coat and skimming out of the breeches, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so.

"How can I be under-estimating him when I've admitted he's bound to win this round, unless he turns uncommon clumsy? Here, these breeches will fit you somewhat better than those - loathsome things, eh what?"

Hastings wrinkled his nose as he pulled on the breeches. Percy jabbed him with an elbow and muttered, "Don't act so fastidious, my friend. Wait till the completion of this night and you'll see . . . you'll be itchy as a dog with fleas from delivering bales of straw. Sink me," Percy chuckled as Hastings bent to fasten the buttons, "they're near to kissing your boot tops."

"You could be running headlong into the noose," Hastings warned.

"You and I both know full well it's not the noose that's fashionable in France these days," Percy said by way of easing his friend's fears.

Percy tugged on a ragged coat that was easily a size too small; the sleeves ended above the prominent knobs of his wrist joints. Then, he wound a greasy scarf into a turban to cover his hair, protecting a pretended head-wound.

"You have a little knife in your boot, Tim, don't you? Let me have it - my boots are too demmed tight to slip a finger inside."

Hastings retrieved the knife, held it out, and Percy slid his finger along the blade, drawing blood which he then daubed against his temple and wiped a liberal amount on the fabric.

Percy put a hand on Hastings's shoulder and walked him to the wagon. "Drive up to the back door. I'll knock and do the talking for you."

Instead of moving, Hastings was blank, a bewildered look on his face.

"I thought it would be obvious, Timmy. One thing all the prisons have in common are straw mattresses, right? And the straw is replaced every week or so. It's one commodity where the purveyor delivers directly to the cells. You get in to see Armand and you get him out. Just take him out with you - I don't care how. You're big enough to throw him over your shoulder if he makes a fuss. I will create a diversion while you take the most direct path out. Take the wagon and leave. Leave me here; I have my own way out."

"Bathurst? Really?" Percy grinned in spite of himself. "Better and better. That's three now, plus Dewhurst and Ffoulkes whom I still expect to come through - wherever the hell they may be now."

Blakeney trudged up the steps, eyeballing the guards as he approached. One stepped forward and ordered, "Halt!"

Percy had reached the top step where he slouched in feigned exhaustion. "Straw man. You know me."

"Never seen ye before," the guard countered. "Don't I usually work days?"

"Of course you do, gov'ner," Percy replied evenly. "As do I. Filthy new commandant at the Conciergerie kept me waitin' near an hour. I want me supper. Let's get this over with."

He shoved his fists into his pockets and rocked on his feet. The guard pondered for a moment and Percy was certain he could see the man's eyes roll around with the effort.

"Right," he said finally, and turned to open the door.

"Wait! I've got a wagon, don't I? Of straw? You opens the back gate, like. We goes in through the back."

The guard shrugged and led the pair to the rear entrance, unlocking the door and leaving them to their own devices. Percy couldn't believe his luck.

"Look at this," he whispered to Hastings. "And not a soul watching back here, either. There, now; you take a bale and start at one side. Work your way through the cells until you find Armand."

"What?" Hastings halted, blinking into Percy's face.

"Well of course you have to deliver the straw for the mattresses. It's quiet now, but you can be sure that people will wander by and no one will question you if you're working. Trust me; I know this is how it works. You muck in. Do your work. Run like hell once you have Armand."

Percy left Hastings unloading a heavy bale and shuffled into the darkness where he hunkered down and waited.

"Come on, Tim, lad," Percy muttered. "Get your cork out, I'm freezing."

Finally Hastings had the bale positioned on his shoulder and humped it inside; Percy stood up and stretched until his bones cracked, then sidled up to the open door and slouched his way inside.

There were only two ways Percy knew of to infiltrate a society under martial law: one was to impersonate an officer and the other was to impersonate a lower class servant since no one of importance ever looked at the overabundance of these type of people. So Percy abandoned Hastings to the job he'd been given, and went in search of a refuse barrel. Kitchen scraps would be the best . . . and he found some in short order. He reached inside and coated his hands with vegetable peelings, then rubbed them liberally over his clothes. Next, a cold fire. There should be one . . . and there was, right next to the refuse. Percy scrubbed his wet hands liberally in the cinders and once more covered himself in streaks of filth. Finally he headed back to the front of the prison. On his way he found a walking stick. It was a carefully prepared branch, and not quite tall enough for a man 6 foot plus. Percy assumed a swinging sort of gait, leaning heavily on the stick and struggled up the steps to the front door of the prison where he faced the same guard as before. This time the man looked up as Percy approached (the stink working as a herald) and assumed a rigid stance.

"You-uh, let me see the commandant-uh. I have a few words-uh for him," Percy said, assuming a nasal twang.

"Can't see the commandant without an appointment."

"That's-uh what I'm saying. Let me see the man. Make-uh some appointment."

"You're not from around here, are you?"

"Swiss," Percy said impulsively, vaguely recalling that the Swiss speak French and German.

"We don't like foreigners here," the guard said, straightening his shoulders.

"I am not a foreigner to you-uh, but to the Swiss."

Behind Percy, a shiny closed carriage drove up to the steps. Revolutionary guards hung from the back as pseudo-footmen. The guard's attention flicked from the coach back to his visitor.

"Wait here," the guard warned, and departed. He left the door ajar, silly fool, as if he imagined Paris was a safe city. Percy waited through a slow count up to 60, then made his way inside. He followed the central corridor, shocked that there was absolutely no one about . . . but then it appeared he'd found the offices and the workers were all at home, probably snuffing their candles and crawling under their blankets at this very moment. Percy yawned at the thought, realising that no matter how things unravelled, this was bound to be a very long night.

The corridor he was traversing ended in a T-section; the bisecting hallway went to left or right. He was trying to remember what he knew of La Force . . . when the sound of footsteps interrupted his thoughts. Coming from the left and headed his way from one of the smaller corridors. Could be anyone, but it sounded like two, or perhaps three, people. Percy leaned heavily on the walking stick and waited for them to appear.

They seemed to be taking a long time to arrive, or perhaps they were actually on the floor above him. "That's it," he whispered to himself. No one would traverse the office corridors after closing, but above . . . Percy knew the communal cells were all on the ground level. Windows that appeared to be right below the ceiling when in the cell, opened a foot or two above the ground. Too narrow for a man to squeeze through, although a skinny wench or a child could manage it, so the revolutionaries only held men in those cells.

The boots tramped directly overhead; Percy felt the walls shudder as they passed. Soldiers; closer to six individuals who were used to drilling - therefore they were not Chauvelin's men, but a bona fide regiment pulled from somewhere. Now that Percy thought about it, there had been more than unusual activity around the city - not during the day, but at night. Not whole musters marching, but small regiments like this of six or eight with an impressive looking captain leading them, all wearing their own colours and not the country's blue coats. Trained soldiers . . . from the south.

As if he'd heard the words spoken, he recalled, "Madame Roland has been demanding the king call up troops from the provinces to protect the citizens of Paris from the Austrian invaders; but fat Louis insists he will never allow bloodshed among my people."

Who were these soldiers? Why were they marching about at night? Because most people slept at night, therefore they would not draw attention to themselves, Percy reasoned. And planning like that suggested it was an action of the Assembly . . . someone like Danton or Robespierre was behind this.

"Saving his own skin at the cost of God knows whose blood," Percy muttered, rolling his eyes in the direction the footsteps went. A jolt of energy travelled through him. Too long. He'd been standing in one place too long; at least one guard would be wondering whether he had walked away . . . or walked inside.

Well, he wasn't creating a diversion as he'd planned; perhaps he should go himself in search of Armand.